


i prefer to text

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, I can never not put a happy ending, M/M, Scars, Tension, Texting, This was supposed to be a weather ficlet, but it got out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Anything on?</em>
</p>
<p><em>No case, no. Slow day at the clinic, then?</em>
<em>SH</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Yup, just listening to the storm. I didn’t mean a case, necessarily. Doing anything interesting?</em>
</p>
<p><em>You probably don’t want to know.</em>
<em>SH</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	i prefer to text

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a Canadian Weather ficlet (for those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, check out my **[tumblr](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com/tagged/canadian-weather-series)** ) that got kind of too long for tumblr :)

_Anything on?_

_No case, no. Slow day at the clinic, then?_   
_SH_

_Yup, just listening to the storm. I didn’t mean a case, necessarily. Doing anything interesting?_

_You probably don’t want to know._   
_SH_

When ten silent minutes go by, Sherlock looks down from his microscope and its slices of putrefied pig’s flesh (John really wouldn’t have wanted to know) in concern. His phone screen stays determinedly blank.

He hasn’t even told John what he’s doing; John has no reason to be angry with him yet.

Somehow, it’s hard to convince himself of this.

Just as he’s about to send a tentative _John?_ , his phone screen lights up.

_Sorry, patient._

Sherlock sighs in relief.

_That’s all right._   
_SH_

_So why wouldn’t I want to know?_

_I’m keeping it in the fridge, for one thing._   
_SH_

_Is it labelled, at least?_

Sherlock smiles sadly to himself. He hasn’t labelled anything in the fridge in, oh, three years or so? 

The stinging in his eyes is unexpected.

_Of course not._   
_SH_

_Sherlock!_

Sherlock can almost hear the reproach in John’s voice, and for a second, it warms him to the core with a feeling of _home_ , of belonging. The next second, he realizes that without John here, he doesn’t _belong_ anywhere, and the bitterness of the sudden loneliness comes out through his fingers.

_Why would I? It’s not like it matters_   
_SH_

_Of course it matters! What if you eat something you were meant to be experimenting on?_

Something about the text irks him.

_You don’t live here anymore, John._   
_SH_

The text physically hurts him to send. What had been playful mere moments ago starts to turn into something sharper, deeper, _dangerous_.

The next text is full of accusation, and the thunder outside feels like the perfect atmosphere for the sudden tension

_I’m not the one who left_

The words grip Sherlock’s heart with claws like daggers, and he turns the focus knob so quickly he nearly smashes the slide into the lens. He turns all of his attention on his phone, the experiment forgotten.

_I HAD TO, John, I didn’t do it because I needed a holiday!_   
_SH_

His hold on his mobile is much too tight, but he can’t pry his fingers off. The humidity from the thunderstorm is making his scars twinge with every movement, the thickened keloid tissue having never quite healed properly without medical attention, and every twist, every turn is a reminder of what he did for John, what he did to keep him alive, but most of all, of what he came back to.

Namely, _nothing_. 

Nearly fifteen minutes go by before he gets another answer, and by the time it comes, he’s nearly shaking with rage, grief, and guilt. The microscope slide is broken.

_You didn’t HAVE TO do anything, Sherlock. You didn’t HAVE TO leave your best friend behind._

Sherlock punches in the next text with something like relish.

_Just like you didn’t HAVE TO do anything either._   
_SH_

_What the fuck do you mean, Sherlock_

This is _definitely_ becoming dangerous. Sherlock pushes on anyway.

_You didn’t HAVE TO get married._   
_SH_

_You didn’t HAVE TO go back to the woman who SHOT ME IN THE CHEST_   
_SH_

_You didn’t HAVE TO raise a child that isn’t even yours to begin with_   
_SH_

_Fuck you, Sherlock_

The words come like a punch to the gut. Sherlock finds it hard to breathe as all of the air gets sucked out of the room and into the pouring rain outside. His rage is now palpable, a searing-hot aura around his too-thin, too-tired, too-injured body. 

It’s this rage, perhaps, that types his next words. 

_You didn’t HAVE TO lead me on for months_   
_SH_

As soon as the text is sent, Sherlock feels himself deflate as he is suddenly filled with regret. There is no misunderstanding that text, just like there is no taking it back. His hands start to shake with something that is definitely not rage.

Minutes pass.

Half an hour.

John is gone.

_Ping._

He pounces on his phone so quickly that he sends three test tubes clattering to the ground.

_What?_

There’s no way John didn’t understand what he meant. Sherlock types cautiously.

_I didn’t think you were going to go back. Why did you leave, John_   
_SH_

_To let you get back to your life._

Sherlock shakes his head. Stabs furiously at his mobile.

_Why did you leave, John_   
_SH_

_You don’t need me anymore, Sherlock._

_You haven’t needed me in three years._

Thunder cracks at the same moment that Sherlock truly realizes what his two years away have done.

_I never needed you, John. Not for the work_   
_SH_

_Ta very much, you bastard_

Sherlock blinks, the words twisting somewhere in his chest, before realizing how his first message came across.

_Idiot. That’s not what I meant._   
_SH_

_What DID you mean, then_

_I needed you for YOU. That’s all_   
_SH_

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Thunder clap.

Sherlock is ready to throw his phone out the window.

_What do you mean, Sherlock?_

_I don’t want to do this over text_   
_SH_

_But what do you MEAN, Sherlock???_

_I mean that I’ve been in love with you since you shot a cabbie_   
_SH_

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes. 

Attempt at levity.

_Should I have been more specific? I wasn’t aware you’d shot more than one_   
_SH_

Ten minutes.

Sherlock throws his phone at the wall, hears the screen crack, doesn’t care; John is gone.

Thunder clap.

Thirty minutes.

Front door slamming. Sherlock’s head jerks up, on the alert. His hand twitches towards his phone until he realizes it’s lying irreparably smashed by the coffee table. The door to the flat slams open.

John stands in the doorway, soaking wet, hair matted to his forehead, jacket dripping down his arms. Sherlock’s mouth drops open and stays open. 

John springs into action, his hands fisting in Sherlock’s dressing gown as he yanks him upwards.

“You unbelievable _idiot_!” he pants out, and Sherlock dimly realizes he must have run from the clinic just before John crushes their lips together and all coherent thought exits his head and is replaced by _John_.

The kiss is hungry, desperate, and full of things unspoken. It feels simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all has passed when John pulls away. 

“Do you know why I shot that cabbie, Sherlock?” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock trembles as he shakes his head.

“Because I loved you,” John replies, and then they’re kissing again, and Sherlock feels light and happy and alive and like he _belongs_. 

Sherlock pulls away, looks down at the perfect man in his arms, and takes a chance.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

John laughs, startled, then kisses him again. “I refuse to take the room upstairs. My lanky git of a boyfriend and I are going to share the master bedroom.”

Sherlock feels all of the tightness in his chest evaporate as he smiles a very watery smile. “Deal.”


End file.
